Notes: Originally written for RenitaLeandra on Livejournal (under the penname of SilburyGirl), in response to her request for Snape saving Hermione from becoming a recluse. I also wanted to incorporate the prompt of going away on a romantic weekend trip, but the entire Ministry decided to come along for the ride.

Thanks to thehalflie for the beta.

The Burdens of Being Functional

Perhaps it had something to do with living through one's own funeral, but since he had long since decided that the reason didn't matter, he had merely accepted the fact: Severus Snape loathed them. It certainly wasn't the unofficial dress code—he had enough black to make a career out of attending them—or the free, and usually edible, food. Hosts seemed to have no qualms about subjecting their guests to food poisoning at a dinner party, but it was unheard of to do the same when honouring the dead.

He liked to tell himself that it was the hypocrisy of the events that irritated him, but that didn't quite explain away his repulsion either. If he had been willing to be honest, he might have uncovered the true reason, but, despite over three decades out of the trade, he was still a spy at heart and not above deception.

The night before this particular funeral, he was laying out his neatly pressed robes with more care than usual, sipping a glass of wine and half-listening to the Latin jazz that Hermione continually insisted he would like if he would only give it half a chance, as he tried not to contemplate the future or, for that matter, the past. It was a delicate balancing act and he was failing miserably at it.

Another sip of wine—he closed his eyes and let the spice of the Shiraz sit on his tongue, mingling with the faint scent of woodsmoke coming from the fireplace.

This death was one that he did care about, if not for his own bleeding heart, then for Hermione's. He had grown to like the man well enough—out of necessity more than compatibility, but it had been genuine in the end—yet what he felt wasn't true grief. Not in the face of what Hermione must be experiencing; not even by his own standards. There was sorrow and worry and empathy that nearly made his heart stop, but none of it had to do with his relationship with Ronald Weasley.

He had been just about to give up and spend the remainder of the evening in his armchair, feeling the warmth of the crackling fire toast his hands as he flipped through a book—the book that he'd been saving up for such an occasion, one where he wanted to slip away for a time and forget himself—when the knocking began. With a reluctant glance at his crackling fire, he finished smoothing out the creases in tomorrow's robes and opened the door to a drenched but otherwise calm Hugo Weasley.

"You need to come with me," he said, stepping inside without invitation, or regard for Severus' wish to keep his floor dry. "She hasn't left her room all day."

"Do you need—"

"No, just come."

It didn't occur to him until his coat was on and he was in the midst of Apparition that he realised he had left the fire burning in the grate—given his luck, a spark would have landed on the rug already and the entire house would be up in flames. For a horrible moment he felt the odd stretching sensation that came with splinching, but it passed when remembered having the good sense to purchase full-coverage insurance righted that, and he landed, whole, at the front door.

The suitcase was flung half-open on the bed, half full although she hadn't added anything to it in hours, not since the initial determination to bolt rather than face tomorrow's service had faded to a dull sense of worry. Instead of the earlier frantic energy, she was collapsed on the floor next to the bed, sliding her bare feet against the smooth hardwood and clutching a framed photograph tightly enough that it was a minor miracle that the glass didn't break. Tracing the outline of Ron's face, she tried to feel something—grief, loss, physical pain, anything—other than the coolness of a glass frame and the overwhelming incurable emptiness that existed in a room she had once shared.

She wasn't sure that she knew how to cry, even; it felt as though instinct had been shut off, numbing her senses until she was no longer sure if the periodic thudding in the background was someone knocking at the door or an imagined presence to fill the silence.

Rose was curled up on the sofa, her head buried in Celeste's shoulder. She glanced up when Severus entered—barely more than a twitch of acknowledgement, but it was enough to show him her stricken face. Celeste disentangled herself and stood, running a hand through spiky blond hair before wrapping him in a hug that he supposed ought to have been comforting.

He let her, inhaling the scents that lingered in her hair and labelling them automatically: patchouli, sweat, and a hint of sandalwood—that was Rose's perfume—that lifted off of her like incense. Allowing himself to be comforted by someone so much younger—the daughter of his former students, and young enough to be a granddaughter—was strange; he sank into the embrace, trying to breathe all his terror into the itchy, hostile wool of her jumper.

Even now, he was amazed that Malcolm Baddock and Luna Lovegood had somehow managed to raise a solid, practical daughter, but even she was trembling and uncertain. She had only held together long enough to help with the funeral arrangements, but she was now an outsider, forced to hold the grief of others above her own. He understood all too well how she felt.

"Thank you for coming," she whispered, voice breaking, before she returned to Rose, who clung to her more tightly than before.

"Where is she?" He sounded more terrified, less certain than he would like—a result, no doubt, of the way that his chest had tightened as soon as he had arrived.

"Upstairs," Hugo said, coming up behind him, "but she won't let you in."

"There's not much point in being here if I don't try."

"I've made up the spare room for you, if you'd prefer to sleep there."

It was well past two in the morning, and he had finally, against his better judgement, forced his way into the bedroom.

Instead of being greeted with anger, she had looked up at him with exhausted resignation that terrified him more than the prospect of her wrath, which was quickly replaced by gratitude when he led her to the spare bedroom. Sleeping alone in the bed she had shared with Ron would be too much to ask, especially on only the second night.

She clutched his hand as he hauled her to his feet, blushing as he raised his eyebrows at the sight of her suitcase. "I thought about making a run for it rather than facing them tomorrow," she said. The moonlight cast shadows across her face, accentuating the lines that had gradually etched themselves across her face over the course of the last ten years. He hadn't noticed them until now. "I couldn't do it—I thought of the kids trying to go it alone..."

"And what Molly would do to you the next time she saw you," he added.

Her smile was weak, but at least it was there. "That too. Still, the fact that I even thought it..."

Waving her into the corridor, in the direction of the spare bedroom, he told her, "Nobody likes funerals, but that's not the point. The point is that you didn't bolt."

She followed the direction of his pointing finger and crawled into the bed. "True. I just don't want to be like Dad was after Mum died—"

"I know."

As he tucked the blankets tightly around her, it struck him that she looked more like the scared first year he had first seen her as than the confident and successful woman that she had grown into. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hand on her forehead until he was certain she was asleep, then crept downstairs to Celeste and a waiting cup of tea.

"Is she going to be all right?"

His gaze met her wide blue eyes that didn't seem to be dimmed by the poorly lit kitchen and he saw his own thoughts reflected in them; it was probably projection, but he would take his comfort where he could find it. He snorted. "She's Hermione. Of course she will, she just needs time."

Celeste gave him a small smile. "I'm more worried about Rose—you know how she gets, but she'll be better after a proper night of sleep."

He did know, but of course she was more worried about Rose. It was for the same reason his stomach clenched into a fist at the thought of Hermione alone. "And Hugo is perfectly fine, naturally."

The tea was fragrant and managed to warm the numb places; he sipped it eagerly, barely noticing when he burnt his tongue.

"Aside from the fact that he's just lost his father in a freak accident, yes, but then he always is."

"And, you?" Severus inclined his head forward, genuinely concerned. If she broke down, he would be the only one in the mess who kept his head about him.

Celeste grimaced, taking her time slurping the tea before she answered. "Ronald didn't like me," she said, "and I thought he was a temperamental prick with the twiggy end of a broomstick shoved up his arse, so I'm only concerned because Rose is involved. I'm not pleased that he's dead; I reckon that I'd feel the same way if he went on permanent holiday to Rio."

Severus smirked. "Well, I wasn't about to say it..."

"My mother values honesty," Celeste added. "I know that we ought to treat the dead with kindness, but, Christ, Voldemort's dead, and nobody's talking about his high points."

"I don't think that there is enough similarity to draw an accurate comparison." His verbosity always increased exponentially with his irritation.

She flushed, and he felt momentarily guilty; obviously he was going soft in his old age. "Sorry—I always forget."

"I wish that I could." Absently, his hand strayed to his collar and he imagined that he felt the scarred flesh twinge.

"I am tremendously glad that you're here," she said, as if to add to her apology. "I don't know that I could handle all three of them on my own."

Leaning back in the chair, he clung to his mug and closed his eyes against his imagined onslaught of grieving Weasleys. "Just wait until tomorrow."

Upstairs, Hermione hadn't stayed in bed much longer than Severus had remained in the room with her.

She had curled up on the window seat and now had her nose pressed to the glass, watching the rain stream past on the other side without really seeing anything. The first stabbings of grief were registering—small, but still painful—and she welcomed them with the relief that accompanied the knowledge she wasn't heartless after all, as her mind turned to memory.

There was a touch of guilt mingled in when the first memory that rose to mind wasn't of Ron, but let it pass. There was hardly any part of her life after the age of eleven that hadn't related to Ron in some way.

The morning of her first Ministry retreat was bright and cheery, but Hermione had decided to have none of it. No one had remembered to include sugar as part of the condiment stand, so her coffee was milky but still bitter—and not even the satisfying bitterness of proper coffee, but the staleness that came from being pre-ground and in a tin—and nearly made her choke. Padma Patil stood next to her, muttering bitterly about people who hadn't yet learnt the power of the spreadsheet when it came to organising events, and Hermione nodded along in fervent agreement.

If she was going to have to wake before four to be Portkeyed to some secret location in the untamed wilderness to learn team-building exercises, there better damn well be coffee and it better damn well be good.

Of course, there were few places in Suffolk that could be considered true wilderness, but, she thought eyeing the cluster of cottages into which two hundred Ministry employees were supposed to fit, this seemed to be close enough. Her grip around the Styrofoam cup tightened until it cracked, and she was forced to watch her last tie to modernity crumble before her very eyes.

Next to her, Padma grabbed hold of her arm and said, "It's official. Someone needs to lock Percy in the depths of the Malfoy dungeons with Bellatrix Lestrange for the next century. I thought the counsellor that he hired to go round to each department was bad, but this is truly his greatest achievement to date. Shacklebolt needs to start vetting his evil schemes."

"How do you know that this wasn't Kingsley's idea?" The words sounded foolish even to her own ears; Percy was the only person she had met who thought retreats were a good idea.

Padma scowled darkly. "I interned under Percy my first summer in the Ministry—trust me, I can smell his brilliance long before his flaming hair comes into view. Don't worry; it's a skill that you will learn in time."

"I look forward to it," Hermione muttered. "It'll mean that I know when to run."

Padma's expression turned grave. "He always catches you in the end. Anyway, just think of all the fun we can have getting the Unspeakables drunk, and then convincing them that they told us their top secret assignments. We'll have them buying us lattés for months. It's flawless."

"Except for the part about how we're going to get into an Unspeakable party."

"Thought of that," Padma said, picking up her duffel bag and flouncing toward their assigned cabin. "You just need to think like they do. It required an in-depth psychological study on my part to work out what those sort find a convincing lie."

With a sigh, Hermione followed the other girl, displeased with the fact that her suitcase's wheels didn't work on uneven terrain. "And that would be?"

"My dear," Padma announced with a grand flourish of her hand, "this weekend we will be so Unspeakable that our fellow Unspeakables have never heard of us."

"In that case, you may want to stop speaking about it," Hermione said, pointedly looking at the group of people who were staring at her theatrics with suspicion.

Hermione had been shocked, to make a gross understatement, when the ploy worked and she found herself in the magically expanded cottage assigned to the Unspeakables. Padma had been applying her considerable intellect to infiltrating the Department of Mysteries without actually transferring there for the previous year and a half, and none of her mad schemes had worked thus far. The closest that she had come was a short-lived romance—consisting of half a dinner—with the department head, but even Padma had been forced to admit that even breaking into Wizarding Britain's most secret organisation wasn't worth an entire date with Dedalus Diggle.

Padma had later remarked that anyone who had a top hat that willing to pop off without warning wouldn't last two minutes, anyway.

Still, as Hermione sipped her champagne—Unspeakables appeared to be very fond of champagne, if the self-filling flutes and fountain in the middle of the common area were any indicator—she had to admire the determination that had landed them in the heart of the Department of Mysteries, well away from the cheap ale that was being passed around Magical Law Enforcement party.

And, she thought, perhaps a bit tipsily as she savoured the fruity flavour of her drink, they certainly weren't cheap about which bubbly either.

The world had just started to take on a pleasantly hazy glow when she was accosted from behind by a perfectly toned blond man, who might have been attractive except for the squashed-in look of his face. Whether he meant to place an arm around her shoulders or whether he had merely decided that she was the most conveniently located object onto which to collapse, she didn't know, but he did greet her breasts rather too enthusiastically for it to be born of pure intent.

"I don't remember seeing you around the department," he said, his words slurring enough to remind her why beverages that topped themselves up at will weren't always the best idea.

"I usually wear a turtleneck."

He peered blearily up from an angle that could only result in a prime view of the depths of her nostrils. "Or you."

"That's alright, then, because you probably won't remember tonight either," she replied, attempting to disentangle herself from his grasp. He clung on with the strength of drunken desperation.

"No, wait! I'm sorry! Won't you be my friend? I promise I'll remember your name!"

Remembering Padma's remark about free lattés, she stopped fighting and smiled at him encouragingly. "Of course. But why don't you remind me of yours first."

She still remembered the moment of shock that she had experienced when she found herself being dragged—mostly because walking had suddenly become improbable in her inebriated state—out of an Unspeakable party—which was something one only attended if they didn't mind being Obliviated after the fact, a clear flaw in Padma's plan—by a man whom, until about five minutes ago, she had assumed to be dead. The twenty-odd minutes before that point had involved trying to swab his throat with her tongue.

Clearly she was trying to correct her misspent youth by carpe diem-ing it up now; she had known that the period of time in the Forest of the Dean was a mistake. Perhaps her parents' offer to pay for therapy was not as repulsive as it had initially sounded.

"I'm an Unspeakable, I swear!" she said, attempting to wrench her arm free in protest. She succeeded, but it was merely a symbolic victory because it left her face-down in the grass.

"Which is why I run the Department of Mysteries, yet have never seen you report to me."

"I'm so secret that I can't report to you. It would look suspicious. I only report to Kingsley."

He offered a hand to help her up, which she accepted gratefully, if not gracefully. Now that she was once again upright, she might be able to make a run for it.

As he let go, she began to sway. Right, so maybe he did have something worth saying after all. Hearing him out would only be polite. Naturally.

"And you can't possibly be department head—Diggle is! Besides, there's no precedent for letting dead people run things." She was pleased with herself for catching him in his lie; she'd have to drink more frequently as it clearly improved her thought processes.

"Obviously I am not dead"—this was evidently a sore spot—"and do you honestly think that the head of the Department of Mysteries' name is going to be common knowledge?"

He had a point. "I still don't believe you."

"And I don't care. Goodnight, Miss Granger. Kindly stay away from my underlings."

That might have been the last she saw of him, except for the fact that they had to stay for the rest of the weekend. Saturday dawned bright and clear, reminding Hermione precisely why she hated nature. The combination of skylarks filling the air with their glorious songs and too much to drink the night before was taking its toll.

The use of the term 'seminar', she had decided within minutes of sitting down with her notepad, was a prime example of modern abuse of the English language. She was a firm believer in lecture halls with overhead projectors; this was mutually exclusive to sitting cross-legged in a field performing exercises that would help her develop a trusting relationship with her coworkers. It was entirely possible that Padma felt the same way, but her expression was rendered unreadable by the large sunglasses that she wore to hide her bloodshot eyes.

"Any luck last night?" she asked, voice hoarse.

"Well," Hermione said, "I met someone named Evan Danielson who wanted to be my best friend, and then proceeded to tell me about his current work with displaced trolls in Siberia. Apparently he gets three death threats a day."

"All that secrecy for trolls? You've got to be joking."

"Perhaps it's Freudian? Anyway, turns out that Snape is alive and in charge of the department. I think. I'd had a lot of champagne at that point."

Padma braved the unforgiving rays of sunlight to peer over her sunglasses in shock, hunting for words. After a moment, she sighed weakly and said, "I suppose that explains why Diggle was so bloody useless."

She had decided that her curiosity would not get the better of her, and had even made it through another two chapters of Advanced Potions for Practical Use before bringing herself to admit that her resolve had been entirely in vain. In the part of her brain that believed in being honest with herself, she had known all along that she would seek him out.

This time, however, she would avoid the champagne—the throbbing headache of the morning was still fresh in her mind—and cut straight to finding Severus Snape and some answers. Short of him sleeping with Kingsley—and the sex being exceptional—she could think of few reasons why his secret had been kept so well.

Severus Snape was evidently not a party person; he didn't even succeed at being a wallflower. He was the sort to loom in corners, scowling over the top of a book. How he managed to loom when he was sitting down and not the towering figure that she recalled, she wasn't sure.

He hadn't aged much since she had last seen him, although, to be fair, the last time she had seen him, excluding the night before, had been when he was dead—or, apparently, not quite dead—on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, so he was bound to look better. There were streaks of grey in his hair and the harsh lines around his mouth certainly hadn't lessened, but his shoulders weren't bunched up around his ears and he seemed less wary: his gaze lifted from the page to glance at his surroundings, but there wasn't any real concern in the gesture.

"I'm sober this time," she said, plopping next to him on the sofa, "and you have a great many questions to answer." She had to shout the last bit, having found herself being drowned out by the sudden, screeching onset of someone playing a Weird Sisters album.

"You have utterly failed to convince me of both," he replied without glancing up. Somehow his voice managed to cut through the din without any effort on his part, which made her loathe him that much more.

A response burned on her tongue, and she opened her mouth to let it out when someone tripped over her ankle on his way by. A blond, vaguely familiar someone, who had his arm wrapped around a smirking Padma.

"Hermione!"

Apparently he had been less sloshed than she had suspected, and did remember her name. It was one less thing that she would have to worry about explaining when the time came to collect her bribes. "Hello, Evan," she said, trying to suppress a grin. Next to her, Snape snorted.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Padma looked far too pleased with her catch, but that changed rapidly when she noticed who was to Hermione's right. She pointed at Snape in shock, who had yet to look up from the pages of his book.

She nodded in response, waiting until Evan wasn't looking to mouth 'good luck' in her direction. Padma winked back before leading the man away into the crowd of dancers, letting Hermione turn back to Snape.

With a prod to make sure she had his attention, she leaned close to his ear. "Why are you out here if you want to be left alone?"

With a heavy sigh, he marked his place with a finger and set the book in his lap. She caught sight of the title—Advanced Potions for Practical Use—and smirked. "You aren't going away, are you?"

"That has nothing to do with what I just asked, but no, I had no plans to. Why sit out here when you obviously want to be left alone?"

"Because, Miss Granger, I suspect that there are youthful miscreants shagging in my bunk right now, and there isn't a quiet place in the building."

A quick survey around the room and a moment of introspection told her all that she needed to know about the situation. Snape had a book. Snape was being forced to sit through horrendous music and drunken idiocy in order to read it. Snape had information that she wanted. The MLE cottage was deserted because they had been invited to the Auror party.

It was perfect.

"My room is quiet," she told him, enjoying the array of emotions that flitted across his face. Hope and horror were among them.

"I realise that you've in all likelihood had more to drink than is advisable and that this seems like a good idea, but I'm not interested in sleeping with an ex-student."

"Which is fine with me, because I'm not interested in sleeping with an ex-professor—I thought you might like to read without interruption. And I told you that I haven't been drinking."

He caught sight of her grin and his frown deepened before the line of his mouth relaxed into resignation. "If I answer your questions."

"Of course."

"You really ought to work on your subtlety." He smoothed the front of his robes, and shrugged.

"Why bother when this works so well?"

The next morning, Severus found her curled up on the window, her head tilted awkwardly as though she had fallen asleep with her face pressed against the pane. The rain had let up hardly an hour before, but the light cast across her face was weakened by the clouds. He let her sleep for another few minutes, watching with a distant fascination as her breath fogged the glass, remembering the half-filled suitcase in her bedroom and wondering if she had really meant to make a run for it. After Celeste had joined bed, he had slipped into her room and closed the lie, stowing it under the bed so that the others wouldn't see. They had enough to worry about, without having to be concerned about Hermione; that would be his job.

He straightened the bedclothes, remembering the first time he had found himself in Hermione's room. She had been sharing it with three other people at the time, and it smelt of old socks and spilt alcohol, but her corner had been immaculately tidied and sprayed with air freshener, so that it was bearable. He recalled how she had curled up on Padma Patil's bed so that he could sit on hers, and feeling pleasure spread through him as he noticed that they were reading the same book. Suddenly the next chapter hadn't been nearly as important as uncovering her thoughts.

The pillows fluffed, he turned his attention to waking Hermione, something that he wasn't looking forward to—less because of her reaction than because he didn't want to see the return of grief as she recalled where she was and what had happened. He knew all too well the wondrous forgetfulness of sleep.

The scent of fried kippers wafted up the stairs, and, in spite of his general dislike of kippers, he a stab of hunger that reminded him he had skipped dinner. Hugo and Rose's bickering carried up the stairs, punctuated every so often by a sharp remark from Celeste, almost loud enough that it would wake Hermione without his interference. He couldn't decide which would be worse, so he leaned down and shook her shoulder gently, pulling her from sleep.

Bleary eyes peered through sleep-coated lashes as she reached up to massage her neck and the beginnings of a smile twitched at the corners of her lips. His heart dropped into his stomach as he waited for the moment when she would suddenly no longer be glad to see him.

It came midway through a yawn; her entire body seemed to seize and the light vanished from her eyes. His heart returned to his ribcage, where it belonged, but it was slightly more sluggish than it had been, as though some of the beat had been left behind.